


Sweet, Submissive Subject

by jaimesselfishmachines



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, POW!Hamilton, Prisoner of War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaimesselfishmachines/pseuds/jaimesselfishmachines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to stay alive. He had to see Eliza. He had to see his son.<br/>If that meant he would hate himself afterwards, so be it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet, Submissive Subject

**Author's Note:**

> The rape/non con is only mentioned or implied and won't be graphic.

George towered tall as ever at the foot of Hamilton's bed, pulling up his breeches and tucking himself back into his undergarments. His eyes scanned over the fragile silhouette of his captive. Hamilton refused to look him in the eyes, but George doubted Alex could see him through the swollen black eyes the guards had given him.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Alex winced and hugged his knees, "Yes Sir," he wheezed through cracked ribs. Alexander imagined his lungs lacerated and mind mangled – he drank so much. He shouldn’t have drunk so much. It’s not like he’d had a choice – George’s staff had made the choice clear; it was either drink or be passed around like a party favor.

"I'm glad." George's voice seemed to echo in the small room they were currently working from. Its amplitude gave Alex a headache...or was that the hangover? Alexander tried to sit up, but stopped when his arm protested the movement. Alex tried to muffle his cry, but failed to smother the high-pitched groan. It was too hot in the small room, and the little coverings he had to preserve his dignity clung to his back, sweat-soaked.  He gasped at every breath, a broken man, struggling to stay alive. He had to stay alive. He had to see Eliza. He had to see his son.

"Let me go," Alex had lost count of how many times he'd asked that of his royal captor.

The king wrapped a hand around Alex's neck and squeezed, not enough to kill him, but enough to make him panic and more than enough to make staying alive much harder. "Now, now, Alexander," The king said slowly, "what'd I tell you about manners?"

"Please, Sir." Alex choked, too weak to counter the king. Even if he was, to do so would be treason. "Please let me go, Sir."

“Well done, Alexander.” King George III released Hamilton who collapsed back onto the bed, chest spasming. “I would, but Washington doesn’t value you enough to give up the war.”  
 Alexander would argue, as was his nature, if it didn’t hurt so much to breathe; he didn’t much trust his larynx to support even his most well researched debate. It wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t worth the cost of the new nation and the freedom that would be afforded to his fellow countrymen. He wasn’t worth the war. He was destined to be another prisoner of war, another flag flown at half-mast, another briefly mourned soul.

“Sir,” Alex rasped, “I’m begging you, let me see my son.”

George III cackled maniacally, shaking his head. He stepped closer to Alexander who flinched involuntarily. Alexander mentally kicked himself – he couldn’t physically do much – for forgetting his manners. Alexander was going to die here. He thought of Laurens’ embrace, Eliza’s warmth, Angelica’s wit. In his three weeks here, he supposed he’d never miss anything more than Washington’s wisdom.

“Okay.” George whispered, “I let you see your son, but…you have to do something for me.”  
  
Alexander cringed, and prayed desperately that that ‘something’ didn’t have anything to do with what he was being forced to do an hour ago. “What is it, Sir?”

George closed in on Hamilton, clasping a manicured hand around Alexander’s wrist. Alexander tensed immediately, working out an infinite number of ways to escape in his mind; but his body wouldn’t move. Why couldn’t he move?

George leaned in closer, and Alex shivered as the warm breath coaxed fear-laced droplets of sweat from his skin. He struggled to repel the phantom sensation of George’s hands on his hips, even as George’s grip tightened on his wrist and he was dragged towards the taller man. Alexander yelped in shock, quieting himself when he realized he was flush against the king. George hovered over him, smiling so mechanically Alex could almost see the screws at the corners of his mouth. Almost.  
The room was too small. ~~He had to fight back~~. He had to stay alive. For Eliza. For his son. Alexander willed himself to be still and surrender to the will of King George III, no matter how much he would hate himself afterwards. Goosebumps migrated up his arm as the King whispered in his ear; Alex stifled a cry and silently bore the force being exerted on his ribcage by George’s weight. The pain made him dizzy, and he thanked the lord for the small mercy of him already lying down – Alex was sure he would have collapsed otherwise.

When George had asked his favor and Hamilton had ~~agreed~~ not declined, George pushed off the bed and stood upright. “Thank you, Alexander.” He uttered, the words rolling off his tongue like honey. Had Alexander been able to see him clearly enough, and been able to move without feeling his chest burn and legs cave, he may have punched Farmer George in the face.

Alexander doesn’t remember the favor. He was conscious for not even a full minute after, and George, now bored with his plaything, allowed Hamilton to enjoy the sweet sanctuary of sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

“Get me Charles Lee!” The general bellowed, towering over his battalion. He hadn’t stopped pacing since the Battle of Monmouth. Why. Why was Alexander so full of pride? George Washington shook his head; he had done everything he could to protect Alexander – he loved the young man so much. Why. Why hadn’t he listened to Alex’s objections to Lee as second-in-command? If only he had listened.  
Then Alexander wouldn’t have been captured by British forces, and Washington wouldn’t have to worry about the torture and excruciating death King George would subject Alex to. At least Alex wouldn’t betray the union.   
“Son…” Washington said to the empty room, hoping by some divine intervention, that Hamilton could hear him.

“Sir!” Charles Lee stood at attention and saluted the general, “You wanted to see me.”  
Washington turned to face Charles Lee, the current bane of his existence.

“Why weren’t you the one to inform me of Hamilton’s capture?”

Charles looked away, shame creeping up his collar, as he was faced with weight of what he had caused. It seemed like proportionate retribution at the time – Laurens had shot at him, goaded by Hamilton; it only seemed fair to leave Hamilton on the frontline. Laurens would lose what he loved most…  
Lee had commanded the advance, then, when Alex took the lead, Charles withdrew, leaving Hamilton in the cold. Lee wanted Hamilton to feel pain, no doubt about that, but he never wished death on Alexander. Not for a second.

“Sir.” Charles said solemnly, “It was my fault.”

“How?” Washington growled, the only show of his bubbling anger. Charles tapped his thigh nervously as he explained the plan and its execution. Washington showed no reaction, but Lee swore he saw the General twitch.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Apologize to his wife, she is with child.” Washington snarled; he clenched his fists behind his back, unseen to Lee. Washington cleared his throat, withdrawing his dagger and pointing it in Lee’s direction, said, “If Hamilton doesn’t come back alive, Lee, I’ll stab you myself. Understand?”

Charles nodded solemnly, selfishly praying that Hamilton was alright.

  

* * *

 

He coughed, the taste of copper in his throat and blood under his fingernails jolting him awake. _George really did know a thing or two about hospitality_. He retched, spilling stomach acid and half-digested bread onto the floor beside his bed. Hamilton retched again, clutching his stomach. Stars tangoed with the black dots distorting his vision and he swayed, capsizing onto the ground, still tangled in the sheets.

Alex closed his eyes and wondered. Would George really let him see his son? It had to be too good to be true. Then again, the king would exact a pound of flesh. But he wasn’t worth it – not a pound; Alexander would argue sixpence. He had nothing – a top-notch brain that got him captured and couldn’t get him out? A couple of college credits and tolerance for pain that really wasn’t helping him right now. He could hear footsteps, but he couldn’t will his eyes to open. Maybe Eliza would forgive him for giving up, just this one time, for surrendering unto death. He shivered and curled into himself. It was so cold. The world was so cold.

He gave up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 _Murmurs fluttered around his mind, acting out a saucy rumba with the phantom of his mother. She held the helpless Alexander in her arms, stroking the black fell of hair that crowned his head._  
“Alexander, what are you doing?” Her voice was a song, the purest melody to hit his ears. He let himself bathe in the melody. He was at peace.   
  
“I have come to see you, Mother.” Alex smiled. His eyes had regained their fresh sparkle. Mother took his hands and lifted him to his feet allowing him to dance an unfamiliar routine; as delicate as she was, his mother moved airily around him, outpacing him two for one.  
  
“And what of Eliza, Alexander? Does she not deserve to see her husband again?” His mother’s voice was matter-of-fact, replacing the melody in Alexander’s heart. His smile dropped, confronted with the truth of this imaginary illusion that had masked his selfish desires. He twirled her around.  
  
“She will forgive me.” He pleads, more to himself than the hallucination standing before him.   
  
“You are making a mere plaything of this young woman’s heart – I’m sure I taught you better than that.”  
  
“But I’m so tired, mother. It hurts too much.”  
  
Detaching herself from Alexander, she shook her head. Mother folded her arms, dissecting Alex with piercing oval eyes, stained the color of the blackest ink Alexander did ever dip his pen.   
  
“Save your strength, Alexander.” She commanded in a tone that left no room for argument, “Save your strength and stay alive.” Had Alexander not known his mother like he did, he would not have noticed the way her lips curled upwards when she said the words. A cruel joke if uttered by anyone else, took a kind tone upon leaving her lips.   
  
“I miss you.” His tone was desperate, wrecked like his third (or was it the fourth?) day of captivity. The first time he was forced to his knees.   
  
“I know.” She whispered, “But you’ll see me on the other side, when your time comes, you’ll see me again.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my attempt at something not Jefferson/Madison.  
> My tumblr is jaimesselfishmachines.


End file.
